Prompts and Drabbles
by seaglasssoul
Summary: A bouquet of Tumblr prompts and drabbles.
1. Shark Kigu Soul

A/N: The one that started it all. This is what happens when Tumblr user Makapedia talks about Soul in a shark kigurumi when I'm mentally checked out from finals studying. So take some crack, where everyone's out of character and the points don't matter!

* * *

"You owe me big time for this," Soul growls, shifting uncomfortably in front of the mirror.

Maka tuts as she finishes zipping up the back of his shark kigurumi, patting the dorsal fin affectionately. "I owe you nothing. This is for Angela, remember?"

Soul sighs. They are crammed in their apartment's sole bathroom getting ready for the little witch's birthday party, which is apparently zoo-themed. "But I don't wanna wear this…this…" he flails his new fleece-fins at his reflection for emphasis, "embarrassing excuse for sleepwear anywhere near public!"

Maka rolls her eyes before answering, "It's just at the park, I think you'll live. Besides, it'll make Angela really happy! So let's finish getting ready and hit the road. Sound good, Jaws?"

"Your face is Jaws," Soul mutters petulantly.

Maka looks over at him coyly. "Don't get _sharky_ with me, Soul."

He groans, slowly lowering his tooth-crowned head to rest on a finned hand.

"Poor, unfortunate Soul; your life is so hard being partnered with the smartest meister in Shibusen."

"Your wordplay is as bad as your taste in music."

"Say what you want, Sharkman and Robin."

"Stop it right now."

"Does Sharkboy miss Lavagirl?"

"Maka I swear to God -"

"But I thought we were chums."

Soul throws up his fins in frustration. "This is cruel and unusual punishment." He pauses as what he just said sinks in. Does he _really_ have to go along with his punny meister's stupid word games subconsciously? Soul resonance is a load of shit if all it does out of battle is make him prone to finishing his meister's terrible attempts at being funny.

Maka grins, "Oh, it's pun-ishment all right," and Soul just curls in on himself and slouches further down the wall. "Nope. That's it. I'm done."

Still giggling, Maka grabs the corner of his right hand-fin and tugs. "C'mon, I actually have a surprise for you. Consider it a thank-you for going today - I know how much being around groups of people drains you."

"S'fine," Soul grumbles, but he stands up straight and follows her into the kitchen anyway. On the counter is a platter of sashimi, but before he can take another step closer Maka turns towards him with an absolutely predatory gleam in her eyes.

"I heard sharks like to play with their food."

She had attached a piece of butcher's twine onto the end of one of those unnecessarily long gag gift pencils that Black*Star had given her for Christmas and is now tying a piece of sashimi to the free end. Soul doesn't know what to be more upset about: the fact that this is _obviously premeditated_ or that his first instinct was to immediately accept anything she gave him like the sad little shark puppy he apparently is.

Soul looks at her flatly. "No fuckin' way." He has dignity! He's too cool for this shit! He's–!

Maka pokes her tongue out in concentration, fumbling a bit with the knot she's tying, and suddenly all he can think about is what that pink flesh would feel like in his mouth.

He's screwed.

Smilingly slyly, Maka finishes tying the raw fish to the end of her makeshift fishing rod and dangles it a few inches in front of his face. Soul swats it away, scowling. She bounces it back in front of his face like he's a _goddamn cat_ so he crosses his arms and growls, "No. What kind of thank-you is this?"

"Awww, is someone a Grumpy Shark today?"

"'M not grumpy. Or a shark."

"Would you prefer Sharkitty?"

"That's SharCAT to you, and hell no! 'M not a cat either!" He makes to move around Maka so he can eat his sashimi like _the cool, composed human being he is_ but she dangles the fish in front of him one more time and he notices that it has begun to slip out of her poorly secured knot.

Never one to let good sashimi go to waste, he lunges sideways and tilts his head to curl his tongue around the fish before swallowing it whole.

He straightens up, about to give her a piece of his mind, when he notices the pink tinge to her cheeks and how her eyes had darted quickly from his mouth to his eyes when he stood. Oh. _Oh._ Well then, two can play games.

"I'm still hungry, Makaa," he purrs, deliberately licking his lips.

She blushes a darker pink and breaks eye contact, mumbling, "Then go eat your stinky fish." Oh yes. That's the reaction he's looking for.

"I thought my Meister wanted to play with her _Sharkitty_?" he breathes, stepping closer to lean over her and grab another piece of fish. He takes his time drawing back, reveling in the warmth of her elevated body heat and the sound of her increasingly shallow breaths. Tying the sashimi to the vacant end of the string, he catches her gaze and places his hands over hers on the pencil end, pulling it up to dangle the fish anew. "Let me show you how far from _grumpy_ I am."

He steps back and, never once breaking eye contact, kneels before her. He slowly opens his mouth and cranes his neck towards the lump of fish hanging a few inches above his head. It's still just out of reach, so he unfurls his impressive tongue and delicately wraps it around the fish, carmine eyes burning into jade.

He pauses for a moment with the twine in his mouth, considering that she literally has him hook, line, and sinker, before swallowing the fish and flashing her his widest, sharkiest grin.

Maka has officially reached tomato status. Stuttering about grabbing Angela's present, she positively flees the kitchen and Soul hears the bathroom door slam shut.

"I didn't know we were keeping her present in the bathroom, Maka," he calls, supremely pleased with himself.

Over the screech of the faucet turning on, he hears his partner muttering about 'stupid weapons' and 'stupid tongues.'

Soul places his fins behind his head. Maybe he'll keep the shark pajamas after all. Yanno. For the memories.

Maka strides out of the bathroom and Soul is momentarily distracted by a drop of water that is lazily making its way to the dip of her collarbone.

"You ready?" she asks stiffly, still clearly a little flustered.

"Got the present?" he drawls in return, glancing at her empty hands.

"It's on the coffee table. I'll grab it on our way out." She heads towards the door but slows as she approaches it, turning to look back at Soul. He swallows nervously; the devilish glint is back in her eyes.

"Hey Soul, want to bet how many tabloids will be talking about a landshark tomorrow?"

Soul's mouth again opens slowly, this time in horror as he realizes that he is about to drive his motorcycle _across town dressed in a shark kigurumi._

Maka hums off-key and skips the rest of the way to the door, twirling to face him as she opens it. "What's wrong?" she asks innocently, voice dripping honey. "Don't you want to show your Meister how _not grumpy_ her Sharkitty is?"

All he can manage is a weak, "That's SharCAT to you," before he's walking out the door and revving up his motorcycle for a very, very smug meister.


	2. Same Park Bench

26\. Sitting on the same park bench au, SoMa tumblr prompt (S/o to Bones & Marsh of Sleep for the glorious suitship)

* * *

Soul slumps onto the bench, panting heavily. Black spots float through his vision as he gulps in air, simultaneously trying not to vomit and to get himself moving again.

Why on Earth did he ever agree to run the Death City Spartan Race?

Wes' pleading face flashes through his mind and he resists the urge to puke again, this time from stomach-twisting guilt. His brother just wanted some active bonding time after his latest world tour, so of course Soul had to fuck it up by grouchily turning down every hand-scripted invitation. It wasn't until he saw the light leave his brother's eyes at the fifth in-person attempt that Soul caved and agreed to run the stupid obstacle course.

Soul leans his head back, feeling sweat trickle down the base of his neck. He really shouldn't be stopping - the next set of obstacles is gonna be tough and he needs to keep on pace. He's never been extremely active and the thought of clambering up a wooden wall before diving under electrified barbed wire makes him want to take a nap.

He barely has time to register the thudding of another runner when a young woman practically launches herself into the space next to him.

Sweat streaming into fierce green eyes, she glares at the ground as her chest heaves with exertion. When Soul makes a startled sound, she whips around and blurts, "What are you doing here?"

Soul is momentarily dumbstruck. There is a bead of sweat making its way down the bridge of her nose and he has the sudden urge to lick it.

"Uh. I'm running the race?" It comes out a question while he's distracted by her lips.

"No shit, Sharklock," she quips, glancing from his face to the race number soaking into the front of his shirt.

Soul closes his mouth self-consciously. "So uh, you're doing it too?" He tries not to let his teeth out much while he speaks.

With a sharp snort the woman replies, "Unwillingly. My papa wouldn't stop blubbering about it until I agreed. But I have to win - he said he'd leave me alone for a week if I did, but if I lost, I'd have to leave for the week. He's a strange one."

Soul laughed weakly. "My brother dragged me here, too. Funny you should mention that, he said the same thing - win and get privacy or lose and leave."

Just then they hear the rapid cadence of people sprinting and turn in time to see one red and one white haired blur pass by, hand in hand.

Soul and the woman jump up at the same time, making frantic eye contact and yelling in unison, "That was my–!"

A bird chirps in the distance. Identical masks of horror emerge from the depths of their souls as they connect the dots.

"No. No way. I refuse to let that happen at my house," the woman breathes.

Soul shakes himself out of his revulsion-induced fugue to say, "Not at mine either."

Green eyes survey him critically before she juts out a hand. "I'm Maka. If we're going to beat them and keep our houses untarnished, we need to team up."

Soul wastes no time grabbing the offered digits. "Name's Soul. Winning won't stop the nightmares I'm gonna have because of this though."

Maka grimaces before tugging him into a long-legged sprint. "That makes two of us, partner."


	3. Long Distance

39\. Long distance relationship au, SoMa tumblr prompt

* * *

Maka stares at the grayed out icon on Curse Voice. Patiently. Maka _patiently_ stares at the grayed out icon on Curse Voice, willing her best friend and longtime boyfriend to get the fuck on voice chat.

It's date night.

She kills time clicking around the shop looking at skins, deciding that she doesn't really need Officer Caitlyn when the familiar crackle of a headset being put on heralds Soul's arrival.

"Hey, you there?" His voice is somehow rougher and breathier in her ear, and she firmly tamps down the desire it stokes. Just one more semester. One more semester and she can touch and lick and tease him all she wants, but for now, League will have to do. It certainly makes her rage enough to forget about other base needs, at least.

"I've been here. Hurry up and login, I can probably only play three tonight before I have to go to bed."

"I've got such an impatient ADC," he teases, icon popping up on her friends list where she is waiting to invite him to a game.

"This impatient ADC carries your sorry ass every game," she sniffs.

"C'mon now Maka, you know I feed you those kills."

"The only thing you feed is my raging bloodlust. Now queue up; we've got LP to farm."

Chuckling in her ear, he does as she bids. While they wait for queue to pop, they talk about their day and exchange Black*Star and Pattie stories.

"So when he finally realized Yurtle wasn't a Ninja Turtle he just stormed out of game night and pouted for a few days," Soul finishes between snorts of laughter.

Maka giggles. "He's something all right. I'll have to hear it from him next time we do 5's." While it's great she can pursue her master's in a top program for her field, it hurts to be away from her friends and boyfriend. Their antics never fail to amuse her and hearing it second hand is not the same as witnessing the absurdity.

"Yeah, but not tonight. I look forward to our duo time."

Maka smiles into her mic. "Me too."

The queue pops and they get down to business, Maka trying (and failing) to get the randos to ban who she wants. At least she got her role.

Bot lane is about trust and coordination, and if there's anything Soul and Maka have in spades, it's trust. They're known for being one of the most lethal duos in soloq, and their teamwork shows it.

When they get ganked by the enemy jungler, Maka kites back and trusts Soul will protect her enough that she can keep putting out damage. Charging forward as Alistar, Soul pummels and headbutts the poor Kindred under turret so Maka can combo with her Jinx traps for an efficient kill.

When a teamfight breaks out around Baron, Soul exhausts and pummels LeBlanc so the team can collapse on her before she assassinates Maka.

And finally, when the enemy team makes a comeback and throws itself after the carries, Soul sacrifices himself to keep Maka alive. It wins them the game, and he can hear the grin in her voice when she says, "What a play! I didn't think we were going to win that one."

Soul scoffs, "We were fine. I had your back."

"You always do, but sometimes you die for it."

"That's a support's job. Sometimes you gotta take the hit for your AD."

Maka pauses. "Just as long as you don't try to pull that in real life, we'll be fine."

Soul is quiet for a beat before a careful, "Wouldn't dream of it."


	4. If and When We Rise

This was a lil somethin' that happened as I was brainstorming ideas for the 'please' prompt for Soma NSFW week. It is decidedly not very NSFW (at least for this sinner) but I wanted to practice a different style and my hand slipped. Warning for sad Soul.

* * *

He starts from the bottom, as he always does, cupping first one and then another heel to plant reverent kisses on her instep. Slowly, gently, he nuzzles his way up her long long legs, lips brushing kneecaps to rest on strong thighs. He breathes her in, dirt and sweat and Maka, before letting his cheek rest in her lap for a few more heartbeats.

Reluctantly, he raises his head to survey her tattered skirt and decides it needs to go. Tender hands slide along the small of her back, lifting her up just enough to slide the fabric over her rear. He traces small circles around her hip bones and leans down to kiss her stomach right above her underwear.

Unable to stop himself, he runs his hands up the smooth curve of her waist and counts the dips between her ribs. Nimble fingers undo the remaining buttons of her coat before he pulls this away from her as well. His hand lingers over her heart for just a second too long; suddenly, the room blurs into incomprehensible swirls of color and he reaches for her hand as he always does when the world doesn't make sense.

Between ragged breaths he brings each knuckle to his lips, softly encasing them in kisses that say _I'm sorry_ and _I'm here_ and _I wish it were me_. He blindly follows her arm to the back of her neck and buries his hand in ash-blond strands, cradling her head to his chest as sobs begin to wrack him in earnest.

After many moments, he takes a deep, shaking breath and looks at her face, vision blurring when he sees eyes that have been shut for far too long. He brushes away a stray hair and trails his fingers along her cheekbones, unconsciously rubbing more firmly than necessary in an attempt to bring out some color.

He leans in close to feel her faint exhale on his skin but the dissonance between the life that breath implies and his unresponsive meister breaks him all over again. Tears streaming down his face, Soul lays a final kiss upon her bandaged brow and whispers, "Please wake up."


	5. Knocking on the Wrong Door

28: Knocking on the wrong door au, SoMa tumblr prompt

Warnings for blood and sad Soul.

* * *

He is so, so tired.

They're running again, slamming through as many of these hellish doors as possible in the hopes of finding an exit, or at least a respite. It's been so long since they've paused to catch their breath.

But stopping is not an option when malformed demons claw at them around every corner, when the very walls they so desperately wish to lean against twist and roar with an ungodly magic. He glances at his partner as they jog down another unmarked corridor, hoping that she's holding up better than he is. Maka is stubborn, though, and even if she were injured she wouldn't show it.

They come to another door, finally, and take the moment to squat down and gulp in air. It's a system they developed early on; even if the walls spit monsters at them or try to swallow them, they can dive through the door and survive another corridor. "Think we're close?" he pants, keeping an eye out for the shimmer that signals a demon portal opening.

Maka wipes her brow and shrugs. "I thought we were close days ago. Medusa's a tricky bastard."

He laughs humorlessly, standing back up to double-check that the coast is clear. "Understatement of the century. Who knew the sorceress had this much power to bend reality?"

Maka's frown deepens. "I knew she was powerful, but I guess I underestimated her control. This is my fault and I'm sorry I dragged you into it, Soul."

It's his turn to shrug. "Not gonna leave you up against one of the most powerful spell weavers alone." He pauses, reaching out to brush her cheek before continuing, "Besides, you're too important to let outta my sight."

Maka closes her hand around his and allows herself two breaths to lean into his touch. So much had happened before Medusa tapped into an unknown power and began undermining the fabric of reality. There is still too much left unsaid between them, lingering glances and too-long touches that need to be labeled, given affirmation. But now is not the time.

She stands and trots to the door, Soul close behind. On the other side is a high-ceilinged cavern bisected by the only path they can take, the rest of the room falling into a bottomless darkness.

Something about the room raises the hairs on the back of Soul's neck, and he watches the darkness carefully for any demon spawn. Maka reaches for his hand.

They come to a small platform with two wooden doors, frameless in the surrounding black. An inscription between them reads: 'A door for love, a door for pain; once chosen, can never go back again'

Green eyes shift from the floor to Soul's face as Maka considers the situation. "Guess we have to pick the right door, huh," she muses, glancing between them. "Aside from lacking handles, they look normal to me." She spares Soul a small but genuine smile. "You know I have the worst luck. I think you should pick."

Soul snorts. "Yeah, once we get outta here I'm never letting you gamble again."

"I thought I could game the system! So sue me if my math was a little off."

Soul smiles, warm and full of something as yet unnamed. "Three thousand dollars is a lot of money for a little off."

"Just pick the damn door."

Chuckling for the first time in weeks, Soul approaches the right door. After looking over at the left one, he shrugs and says, "Might as well go with this one. It's a fifty-fifty no matter what."

Maka nods and comes to stand with him. Lacing their fingers together, Soul looks at her and opens his mouth but she interrupts him. "Not now, Soul. Let's get through this first and deal with…with us later."

He sighs and brings her hand up to his mouth, barely grazing each knuckle with his lips. "I thought you might say that," he murmurs, holding her gaze with his final kiss.

She smiles again, and for a moment Soul can see Spring in her eyes before the tiredness returns and she's back to business. "Let's go."

Soul raises his other hand to knock on the door, assuming that's what he's meant to do in lieu of grabbing a handle. It sinks slowly inward, and they walk through hand in hand.

Soul will never forget what happens next. Not two steps in, a blade as black as tar materializes from the darkness and flies at them, nearly slicing through their joined hands. With a cry they release each other, grasping bleeding hands to their chests.

The blade doesn't wait for them to recover; it flies at Soul who throws himself to the side to dodge. It's fast, though, faster than he is and he knows it. He hears it leave the ground from its last attempt and scrabbles to his feet so he can try to fight. For Maka, for everything left unsaid, he's got to try.

But the blade is too close, just a few feet away, and this is it. Perhaps when it's lodged in him, Maka can land some blows and beat it. She's always been worth dying for.

He closes his eyes and braces for impact, trying to remember the way she smells and how her laugh vibrates through him when he's holding her.

It never comes.

Instead he opens his eyes to a nightmare, Maka falling in slow motion before him with blood pouring from her chest. The blade clatters uselessly to the ground, whatever witchcraft enchanting it apparently satisfied.

Soul drops to his knees to cradle Maka's head in his arms, frantically chanting, "Nonono Maka please can you hear me?"

She's unresponsive, the gaping wound across her chest oozing blood that pools beneath her. Soul rips his jacket off and tries to staunch the flow, but it's a deep cut and he can't keep up the pressure along all of it.

"Maka, please, if you can hear me, I love you I love you I love you and I shouldn't have let you make me wait to say it." He leans in to see if he can feel her breathing and catches what he thinks is the ghost of his name before she stills completely.

Between the sobs wracking his body and the patter of his tears mixing with her blood, he wonders how different things would be if he didn't knock on the wrong door.


	6. Stoned Eater

35: One of them trying to get the other off drugs au for SoMa tumblr prompt.

Warnings for accidental weed ingestion.

* * *

This is a disaster.

Aghast, Maka stares at her usually-clothed roommate as he wanders around their living room hugging one of her fluffy throw pillows to his chest. Shirtless.

"Soul," she begins cautiously, "what's going on?"

He spins lazily to greet her. "Maaakaaa! Where've you been? You weren't in your room," he adds astutely.

Rooted to the spot, still not over the fact that _he's shirtless_ and _has nice obliques_ , she says, "I told you yesterday that I had my tutoring group this afternoon. More importantly, where is your shirt and why are you holding my pillow?"

He blinks at the green-tufted pillow in his arms as if he'd forgotten it were there. "'S soft," he says matter-of-factly before smooshing it to his face, biceps bulging slightly from the force of his embrace.

Oooookay. Something is definitely Not Right. She thinks back to the times they've hung out together, but she doesn't remember him ever doing drugs aside from the occasional toke at a house party. She decides the direct route is best in this situation since she doesn't know what she might be dealing with. "Soul, have you smoked anything or taken any pills today? You're acting funny."

He emerges from behind her pillow looking mildly affronted. "I'ma good boy, Maka. You said yourself you like good boys the other day," he says as if that explains it all.

"I was talking to the service dogs visiting the library, Soul, _not_ to ridiculous roommates who may or may not be on something dangerous to their health!"

He grins suddenly, shuffling over to grab her hand and tow her to the couch. "So you care about me?" he mumbles shyly.

Maka rolls her eyes and hopes it dispels the blush she feels creeping up her neck. "Of course I do. Without you, who would pay the other half of rent?"

He pouts a bit at that but soon gets distracted by her hand he's still holding. "You're soft too," he murmurs, stroking the top of her hand reverently before bringing it up to rub against his cheek.

Maka lets him nuzzle her hand for a few seconds before she realizes it's probably crossing some roommate boundary, no matter how fascinating the bit of stubble on his cheek feels.

"Have you eaten anything today?" she asks while extricating her hand from his delicate hold.

"Mmmm Black*Star brought over some brownies earlier." Soul pauses, then looks guiltily at Maka. "He told me not to have any but we ran outta pasta 'n I don't wanna pick spinach outta my teeth all day. I only had a couple."

Realization smacks Maka like a tuna to the face. "Did he tell you why you couldn't have any?" she asks slowly, inching away from Soul so she can inspect these brownies herself.

He shrugs, slumping sideways on the couch as Maka moves away and he can no longer lean on her. "Somethin' 'bout a party later but Tsu didn't want them in their apartment. Hey, c'mere," he says when it registers that Maka intends to get up without him. Pulling on the hem of her shirt, he whines until she scoffs and sits back down.

Humming happily, he nestles his head in her lap and reaches up to run his fingers through the ends of her hair. "Your hair is so smooth," he says in amazement, letting it slide out of his hand before starting the process again.

Maka's at a loss for words. On the one hand, she's glad he's not on something life-threatening, but on the other she has no idea what to do with a lapful of stoned Soul gazing up at her with an endearingly goofy grin.

Tentatively, she cards her fingers through his hair. It's for science - if she can get him to sleep it off, then everything can go back to normal and they can laugh about that one time Soul ate pot brownies and took a shirtless nap in her lap.

Reaching for the remote proves to be not okay in Soul's book; he headbutts her in the stomach to keep her on the couch.

"Oof, what, I thought you might want some music or background noise or something," Maka grumbles at him, replacing her hands on his head.

"'M already listening to music," he says helpfully, closing his eyes and snuggling into the fetal position.

"O…kayyy," Maka says as she continues to comb through his hair. Science is happy to note that it's just as soft as it looks.

"Shhhhh," he whispers, "can't hear your heart's baseline when you keep talkin'."

Oh. Since she's clearly not going anywhere for a while, Maka settles into the couch and closes her eyes. Soul's fingers tap out a lazy rhythm that tugs her towards unconsciousness, and she falls asleep wondering what her heart's baseline sounds like.


	7. Are You Wearing My Shirt?

A/N: Welp. This was another tumblr prompt, but I had just read through a series of very sad stories so here, I'm sharing. Warnings for suicide, drug use, needles, and general angst.

* * *

Her bed is always cold when he wakes. Little wrinkles in the sheets beside him hint at soft flesh and fiery eyes, calm nights falling asleep to the dual beating of their hearts and the melody of her soul. But he's alone in the room, and he can't remember where she went. She never leaves him for long.

Drifting into the living room, he expects to find her sitting on the couch or bustling around the kitchen, but again he's met with an eerie quiet and the feeling he's walked into a room someone had just left. To distract himself from the vague discomfort building in his chest, he picks up the leftover takeout on the coffee table (vegetable lo mein, her favorite) to bring into the kitchen. Her door catches his eye then, closed but not locked, just a handle twist away, and he loses sensation in his hands while he stares at it, frozen. Leftover lo mein slides to the ground with a sick plop, forgotten. He leaves it.

Now he's in the kitchen, and the sink is full but he doesn't stop to do dishes, turning instead to the trash to scrape the plates clean. When he turns back, the sink is clear, allowing him to place their dishes at the bottom while yawning profusely. Maka always brushes the sleep from his eyes.

As if his thought summons her (and maybe it does; the line between them has long been blurred, frequent resonance leaving his soul pockmarked with fragments of hers), she glides into the room, golden hair catching the light like a broken halo. He looks at her, greedily taking in the green of her eyes, so alive, and the pink dusting her cheeks. What he would do to brush a finger along the side of her face, tucking those stubborn bangs behind her ear, or feel the wholeness of her lips between his. Images flash before him, flickers of black vials and the demon with fingers down his throat, and it hits him again, for the thousandth time, that none of this is real. But she's looking at him like she always does, eyes a virgin forest on the brink of combustion, and his lips are dry when he croaks, "Maka?"

She holds his gaze as she drops a hand to the counter, granite top disintegrating at her touch in a swirl of black ash that rises to float around her. "Soul," she murmurs, stepping towards him while the ash coalesces into a tattered likeness of the dress she used to wear when they'd dance inside his soul, back when he had a soul to share. "I miss you." Reaching forward, her fingertips ghost over his jawbone to cup his cheek, and, like always, he wishes he would disintegrate, too.

He usually responds in kind, crushing her to his chest with a breathless litany of apologies. But something has finally snapped inside him, the thin tether holding him so tenuously to this world fading quietly like mist on the wind, and now he can't get the words out. They're battering at his tongue, his heart swelling with the need to let her know he's sorry, so damn sorry, and he'll always love her. Her eyes devour him while he silently implodes, a broken star existing for too many years without fuel, and he welcomes the coming supernova.

Her dress twists and writhes along her skin as she takes another step, body inches from his chest, while the kitchen begins to melt around her in gobs of irrelevance. The universe could burn as long as she exists, here, now.

"Are you wearing my shirt?" she whispers, voice already fading, and he looks down to realize that he is. It's her favorite shirt, originally one of his, an old band tee that she "borrowed" soon after they started dating. She'd always find an excuse to wear it whenever she could, and he had come back from many a month-long Death Scythe trip to find her sprawled on his bed in nothing more than the shirt and a pair of his boxers. The last thing she told him before she left on her solo mission was that he'd better not take the shirt back - it's hers for as long as she lives.

It's on him now, though, and he swallows the familiar tightness in his throat while he contemplates scenarios where he went with her, protected her, at least held her for her final moments. She could have as many shirts as she wants if she'd just come back.

The world is starting to crumble around him, and everything he looks at turns to dust. He hates this part the most, where he's close enough to waking that he's aware of the dream but unable to stop any part of it. She calls to him, "Soul!" and like always, he's drawn to her voice. She's nothing but a silhouette now, backlit by a weeping sun while thick, black tears roll from its surface to coat her. He meets her eyes, the only part of her that shines through the darkness, and he brands the tears shimmering down her cheeks onto his heart one last time before she's dust, too, disintegrating from the tip of her outstretched hand to fly as ashes on the breeze. He never gets to say goodbye.

But now he's falling, falling, gasping and choking as he struggles to wake up in a reality he wants no part of. He can't breathe, so he pounds his chest a few times until a wave of nausea takes him and he's vomiting into the bathtub he's sprawled in, head pounding as he dry heaves between his knees.

Rolling to the side when the world stops spinning, he sees black-crusted syringes littering the floor and everything comes crashing back, waterfalls over anthills. She won't hate him if he does it just once more, right? He grabs a syringe and flicks it with a practiced, shaking finger, tapping the tar-like substance down to the bottom and grabbing a worn rubber tourniquet. It's tight around his arm and his vision swims, briefly, before a flash of light draws his attention to what's left of the bathroom mirror, lying broken on the floor across from the bathtub. He hears the demon cackle in the back of his mind, _Soulie is such an angry boy without his meister._ He doesn't remember how it broke.

His reflection shimmers briefly in one of the larger glass shards. He's wearing her shirt, just like in the dream he chases every day, and he remembers that he's never once taken it off since she left. The black and blue splotches on his face remind him of stormy skies they used to fly through together, and feathered wings flit through his mind before the tremor in his arm breaks the spell and he plunges the needle home, sighing heavily as a different kind of black blood oozes through his veins.

Now that he's got his (temporary, always temporary) fix, he can stand again, stumbling through the apartment to look for rusting motorcycle keys under mountains of molding pizza boxes. Neatness was always her strength. When he can't find them in the hallway, he slumps into the living room and trips on chunks of black, glossy wood, cutting his hand on the wire protruding from a sepulcher of ivory keys. The piano was the first to succumb to one of his drug-induced rages, seven years to the day he got the phone call from Kid. Music lost its meaning when he could no longer hear hers.

He gets up and moves into the kitchen, noticing the warped spot on the floor where Maka spilled boiling water all over the linoleum trying to cook him a fifth year anniversary dinner. She had always tried so hard for him, held him when the nightmares clawed at his sanity and tugged him out of bed when the thought of opening his eyes was too much. He had never deserved her in the first place, but losing her just after he had begun to believe her soft _I love you_ 's was incomprehensibly cruel.

The aching in his chest is numbed by the tar in his veins, allowing him to continue his search for the motorcycle keys. They turn up on the counter next to a stack of fading photographs he had printed in his second year of mourning. Her bright eyes haunt him as he rummages through cluttered drawers looking for a pen, belatedly remembering to leave a few notes, and he stops to flip the top picture over in something like shame. He'll never be high enough to think he deserves to look at her anymore.

Paper is not hard to come by with the large pile of unopened mail strewn about the apartment. He scribbles his final letter to her and reaches for his lighter, a habit he got into after she'd been gone three years. Words were always her favorite and he liked to think that when he'd burn them, the smoke curling towards heaven would reach her.

As an afterthought, he writes a note to Wes and Spirit too, because even though he'd shut them out early along with everyone else, a small voice that sounds like her tells him they ought to know.

Tasks completed, Soul walks out the door with the demon grinning in his head. _You're finally gonna do it, eh Soulie boy? Took you long enough,_ he cackles, gnawing on the tips of clawed fingers. Soul revs his motorcycle.

He's blazing down the highway they used to take to go to her favorite restaurant, trying and failing to remember how her arms felt clutching his waist. He can't remember much anymore, only where the needles go and different shades of green, but he has a strange feeling this is something to be thankful for.

He's on the road that leads to the best stargazing spot in the state, a secluded area on top of a small, rocky mountain. Soul used to take her there after particularly rough missions so they could lie together in peace, tasting each other's lips beneath the light of dead stars. Now he's hoping it will grant him a different kind of peace, one he's fought so hard to deny for her. But he's tired, so fucking tired, and he did everything he could to keep his promise. He's gone ten years without her, ten years longer than he thought possible, but he's had enough of living in a world without Maka.

Her funeral had been small, tasteful, intimate. Only family and close friends were allowed, but Soul still had to speak to them civilly and pretend his world hadn't already ended. It was only when Black*Star, face somber, came over with an unopened bottle of whiskey that Soul had let himself dissolve into fits of hiccuping sobs, wanting so desperately to follow her to the other side. But her will had come with a letter addressed to him, written in that tiny, precise hand, and her voice echoes in his head as he recalls her gentle command, "Don't forget our vows."

How could he? How _could_ he forget the words, "And to carry on when the other is gone, not just 'til death do us part but forever and always," when he chants them each day like a prayer, a mantra, a spell, anything to keep from breaking them? The needles were his last attempt to obey her final wish, desperately seeking something to make him crawl into the next day, and the day after that. But like everything else he's tried, it wasn't enough. Nothing will ever be enough anymore, and he's done fighting it. She'll understand. She always does.

Opening the throttle, he revs the engine and bursts through the wooden guardrail at the top of the mountain. There's a moment of weightlessness before he's soaring again, just like they used to when he was snug between her thighs and surging forward on tufted wings. As the rocks below rise to greet him like a long lost friend, Soul closes his eyes and grips his (her) shirt, smile twisting his lips for the first time since he wished her luck on her mission. _See you in Heaven, Angel._ The ground has never felt so soft.


	8. Are You Still Mad?

A/N: Another tumblr prompt, this one 'Are you still mad?' Back to fluff and self-indulgent video game references for me.

* * *

Low bass thrums through the dimly lit house, reverberating off basement walls to settle uncomfortably in Soul's bones. Pairs of people face off in a competitive game of beer pong in one corner, while in another an old N64 has been brought out for lightning rounds of Goldeneye, Turok, and Mario Kart. The cement wall is cold and uncomfortable against his back while he leans against it, striving for that aloof 'don't talk to me' vibe because he's _really_ sick and tired of people trying to make conversation. It's bad enough he had to slog through the general anxiety of winter finals last week, wondering for the umpteenth time if _this_ class would be the one that sends him packing, if _this_ class would dip his already tenuous GPA below the admittance threshold and jettison him far from his newfound friends. Far from Maka.

For the tenth time in as many minutes, he glances at where she's sitting by the N64, schooling some blond pretty boy in what looks like a slaps-only round of Goldeneye. She's been dominating party games all night while he was knocked out of the first round of a Rainbow Road showdown. He never could land that fucking shortcut jump. Sighing, he unsticks himself from the wall and makes for the stairs, wondering if this bitter kernel of jealousy he feels for the games is what she feels for music. She's certainly glared at his composition sheets enough for him to wonder.

The early winter air is crisp and bracing against his face when he steps outside, a welcome change from the miasma of bro-sweat that hangs heavy in the basement. He'd discarded his jacket hours ago and is left in a threadbare tee, but he'd rather be cold than surrounded by people for another minute. How does Maka do it? She'd been radiant, bubbly, and fierce taking down all the wannabe gamer boys, red solo cup in hand as she laid waste to the hopes and dreams of everyone trying to dethrone Maka 'Oddjob' Albarn. It's like their constant interaction and cries for mercy fuel her, something as alien to him as her desire to come here in the first place. But he is her faithful, painfully platonic roommate and he has a duty to make sure she gets home safely.

Leaning back, he looks at the stars glimmering faintly in the light polluted sky, letting his eyes unfocus so they blur together like a child smeared white paint on dark canvas. If he stares too long at the stars themselves, he'll think about how their twinkle mimics the one in Maka's eyes and how he wouldn't have to think twice about his wish if he saw a shooting star. He already recites it to himself on nights when nightmares consume him, thoughts of holding her tightly and kissing the tips of her fingers releasing the panicked tension in his chest. But he knows it's a one-sided attraction, knows she doesn't want anything other than a casual friend to share living expenses with.

"Hey, what're you doing out here all alone? Are you still mad I whooped your ass in Mario Kart?" Her voice shoots adrenaline through his system both because it's unexpected _and_ because he's constantly lowkey listening for it. Whipping around, he mumbles, "Geez Maka, way to sneak up on me."

Her eyes reflect the patio lights and that golden-green hue is breathtaking. Her laugh manages to be both soft and hearty, like she's actually enjoying herself around him, and she says, "I noticed you were gone when I finished that last round. Came to see what you were up to."

Soul is still puzzling over the fact that she cared enough to come find him when the wind picks up and he's shivering, frigid air slicing through his thin shirt. Concern flickers across Maka's face and before he can even posture to object, she's shrugging out of her oversized hoodie and holding the bottom open expectantly. "Well?" she asks, impatient. "Get in before you freeze to death."

"I won't frmumph-" He's cut off by Maka tugging him down to her level with a fist in his t-shirt and shoving the hoodie over his head, to hell with his protests. It's warm and soft and drenched in her smell, and he finds himself dragging it over the rest of his body slowly so he can savor it. "Uh, thanks Maka," he says after he pops his head out the other side. She stifles a chuckle, and Soul looks down at himself to see what's so funny. It may be oversized on her, but on him, it's a glorified short-sleeved bellyshirt, and he internally groans at how ridiculous he must look.

As if she could hear his self-deprecating thoughts, she says, "It actually looks pretty cute, don't worry." And then, of all things, she _blushes._ Huh. "So, is that better?" she asks, looking up at him through blond lashes with a curious fire in her eyes.

"Mm," he confirms, snuggling into it further. He catches her looking at him, the ghost of something possessive in her eyes disappearing the moment they make eye contact. "But aren't you cold now? You're hardly better off than I was with that tank top." He glances down at her spaghetti straps in what he intends to be a disapproving grimace, but ends up with something more like reverence when he notices the jut of her collarbone and the definition in her shoulders. Maka has always been so strong, so unyielding in personality that he forgets her body reflects it, too.

He's still staring when she shivers slightly, and he watches with fascination as gooseflesh pebbles her arms. Without thinking, he reaches over to rub them away, thumb tracing circles on the smooth skin of her biceps. For some reason it doesn't seem to be helping (if anything she's shivering _more_ ), so he does the next best thing he can think of and wraps his arms around her back, crushing her to his chest. "Uh, sorry, d'you wanna go inside or something? I just saw you shivering and we can share body heat this way and I'm sorry if I shouldn't be doing this and-" His words are cut off by a firm headbutt to the solar plexus, small hands grabbing his (her) hoodie and once again pulling him down to eye level. He gets a glimpse of smoldering evergreen before she closes the distance between them and, wow, her lips are a taste of heaven.

She's withdrawing just as fast as she swooped in, uncertainty coating her gaze like oil on water. "Does that answer your question?" she asks, looking anywhere but his face.

Soul brings a hand up to touch his lips (was that actually _real?_ ), saying, "Maybe? Wait, no, of course not; you've been drinking all night and I am _not_ gonna be that guy. Let's go back in and play more games and go home to sleep it off." Of course. What other reason than the alcohol would Maka have to kiss him?

Stepping around her proves futile, glommed as she is to his chest, and somewhere along the way she's placed her feet on top of his. Add to that the grip she still has on his hoodie and it looks like he's not going anywhere. Soft puffs of her breath tickle his face when she whispers, "Actually, I haven't been drinking all night. That was water in my solo cup; I didn't want you to feel left out being the only one not having alcohol."

Oh. _Oh._ He opens his mouth to probably trip over his tongue again, but she catches his bottom lip between hers and the warmth that spreads through him is entirely too distracting to hold a cohesive train of thought. His cheeks are next on her kiss hit list, each one anointed with gentle pressure before she dots one on the tip of his nose and leans back. "In case I wasn't clear, I like you, doofus."

"I got that now," he rasps, face aflame and heart doing its best to pound its way out of his chest. _She likes him?! She likes him!_ A slow grin creeps across his face and he says, belatedly, "I like you too. A lot. I like you a whole lot."

Little did he know her eyes could shine brighter than the stars, her smile amplified tenfold in those verdant pools he sees himself reflected in. Worming her way out of his embrace, she grabs his hand and tows him towards the sliding doors that lead to social hell, a different kind of fire in her expression as she says, "C'mon, I told them we'd play the winners in water pong. They don't know they're going up against the strongest partnership this side of the quad!"

Partnership echoes with new meaning in Soul's head as he lets himself be drawn back downstairs, the butterflies in his stomach replaced by a ball of warmth he's sure stems from the heat of Maka's hand. Later that night, when everyone else has either passed out or gone home, Soul rests his lips on her forehead in their shared sleeping bag and thinks that maybe parties aren't so bad after all.


	9. Haterade

A/N: I am utter garbage. Based on a tumblr text post. I'm so sorry.

* * *

Sex with Black*Star has always been...interesting.

Not necessarily a bad interesting, like what people say when they don't want to be mean or hurt someone's feelings. Just…a Black*Star interesting. Sure, he's a little overly enthusiastic sometimes, and okay, he likes to wear a cape during foreplay, but on the whole, he's a really sweet guy. The kind of sweet that needs supervision. As she takes a deep, cleansing breath in the middle of their sopping wet, ruined mattress, Tsubaki reflects on precisely which life choices got her here.

It had been a normal enough day. Training, sparring, lunch, weightlifting, more training. She'd even gotten him to stop doing the Gangnam Style dance behind people in the mirror when they were trying to finish their sets. All in all, she'd been feeling pretty happy when she'd stepped into the shower to rinse the sweat and glitter from her skin (he's in his 'throw some glitter, make it rain' phase again). It'd looked like she'd be able to spend a nice, relaxing evening cooking a hearty dinner while Black*Star zoomed around the block searching for Pokémon (far and wide, he'd always tell her) until the door to the bathroom burst open and he was skidding across the tiles to face plant into the wall.

"Star, what on Earth-" Tsubaki began, stopping when she noticed what he was wearing. Death help her, not another one of _those_ nights. Grinning from ear to ear, he turned around and rolled the few feet between them on bright yellow Heelys, dressed in nothing but a snug jockstrap that had a giant white star stamped directly over his package.

"'Sup, Tsu?" he asked, attempting to lean nonchalantly against the shower until he remembered it was a curtain, arms windmilling desperately as he tried to keep his balance. He failed, though, and fell face first inside the tub, leaving her with a full view of his ass.

"Why does your underwear leave your butt hanging out?" she asked, cocking her head to the side to get a better view of the fabric strips crisscrossing cheek to cheek in an X.

"This isn't underwear, Tsu; this is manliwear. You know how guys dig lingerie? Well, chicks dig butt corsets, so I thought I'd grace you with my divine ass before we get down to it tonight."

Tsubaki brought a hand up to cover the smile spreading across her face. Other people might assume that she was prudish or vanilla in the bedroom because she's kind and polite, but the Book of Eibon wasn't lying about who was the most lustful when it left her as a man for the longest. There are some interesting things one can do with a chain scythe.

Bending over to help him to his feet, Tsubaki said, "Your ass does look pretty nice," giving it a firm slap for good measure. Fist-pumping his way to standing, Black*Star hooted, "Damn right it does!" before grabbing her hand and tugging her to the bedroom. It wasn't long before they were kissing, sucking, and panting their way towards release, Black*Star pausing every now and then to flex at himself in the mirror. Guess she'd have to secure his blindfold better next time. When she reached over to tighten it, he flung his head dramatically in the other direction, forehead meeting the crook of his elbow.

"Star, what have I told you about dabbing in the house?" she teased, grabbing him loosely by his jockstrap'd dick to drag him over. She knows what she wants and it's him out of that ridiculous butt corset, no matter how well it accentuates his tight ass. The man lifts; what can she say?

Now that she'd gotten him out of his underwear (on the condition that the Heelys could stay), the real fun could begin. Despite his brash and flippant exterior, he really was an attentive lover, and Tsubaki let him at her with all the force of a great typhoon, headboard rattling in time to Justin Timberlake's _Sexyback_ playing inexplicably in the background. He must have set the motion sensor iPod player above their bed to the 'sexytimes' playlist again.

Thoroughly satisfied, she leaned back on her elbows to bask in the afterglow. This was usually when he'd jump up for a high five, so she was mildly concerned when he instead ducked under the foot of the bed and began rummaging around.

"Star, is everything okay?" she asked, a worry line creasing her forehead. He'd yelled his 'good nookie' victory screech as he came, so it couldn't be the sex, but he also doesn't normally get up so soon after 'the nakey shakey.'

Sitting up to crawl to the edge of the bed near him, she opened her mouth to check in with him again when he shot up from beneath the bed, a giant cooler in hand, and upended it over her head. "Good game, Tsu!" he yelled, slapping her ass while bright orange Gatorade cascaded down her body and splashed onto the mattress in a tidal wave of _what the fuck._

So here she is, cold, wet, and not really surprised while Black*Star chuckles to himself and settles down to load Halo into the Xbox. She gives him a minute's grace period to think about what he's done, and when he predictably doesn't, she flings a shuriken over his shoulder to lodge in the off button. Turning around, he pales at her twitching eyebrow and jumps up, wheeling out the bedroom door with a hasty, "Gotta go fast!"

Oh yes, he does. Striding into the bathroom, she pours his shampoo down the drain and replaces it with Nair, securing the lid with a satisfying twist. It was Black*Star himself who had told her, "Don't get mad, get even," right?


	10. Amazing, Isn't It?

A/N: Another tumblr prompt, this one for "Isn't it amazing" feat. Maka. Please accept all of my Papa Soul headcanons.

* * *

Whoever invented nap time was a saint.

Soul tiptoes through the living room, picking up pieces of staff paper filled in with bright crayon approximations of music notes and nearly sobbing as he steps, barefoot, on _another fucking Lego._ Maka says they're great for mental development and Sage seems to enjoy them, but he's of the mind that they're tiny plastic torture devices and is none too gentle throwing it into the giant plastic tub with the rest of their collection.

Satisfied that the living room is tidy enough, he moves into the kitchen to get started on lunch: simple but satisfying PB&J's on whole grain bread with sliced apples. Sage takes after her mother and prefers the bread toasted, but he'll hold down the fort for the _true_ classic: untoasted, hold the crust. He just hopes she doesn't lecture him again about all the nutrients he's missing; she might be five, but she's already absorbing everything she hears, sees, and reads with terrifying voraciousness. Shuddering, Soul contemplates a future where _two_ pairs of green eyes, one a fiery emerald and the other her namesake sage, stare him down so he'll eat his veggies. Well, he thinks fondly, that's a small price to pay for time spent with the loves of his life.

Glancing at the lucky cat clock on the wall (ha ha Blair, real funny wedding present), he speeds up his sandwich making and packs them into little parchment paper sleeves, adding an extra toasted sandwich for Maka. A few deft scythe finger chops are all it takes before the apples are likewise sliced and packed away, and he grabs their water bottles out of the fridge where they've been chilling all morning.

Time to go watch Mama kick some ass.

Peeking into Sage's bedroom, the walls covered with scraps of paper holding her "compositions" (she did seem to inherit his affinity for music in addition to her sharp teeth), he finds her dozing angelically, just as he left her an hour ago after a vicious Nerf gun showdown. He'd lost, but to be fair, she has a tiny surface area and all the speed of an over-caffeinated Black*Star. "Hey pup," he murmurs, gently shaking her shoulder. "Time to get up. Mama's waiting for us."

Bleary eyes blink up at him while she yawns impressively, tips of her teeth glinting in the light from the door. "Are we gonna watch Mama beat up bad guys?" she asks, sitting up and rubbing an eye with the back of her hand. Pausing, she asks, more excitedly, "Am _I_ gonna beat up bad guys?"

Soul can't help but laugh. Her bedtime stories since she was born have been a mix of educational parables and watered-down versions of their own fighting experience. Like a true warrior's daughter, Sage wants to 'fight bad people' and 'make life fair for everyone!' Maka always smiles fiercely when Sage says this, nurturing her budding desire for equity for all by encouraging her to learn as much as she can about the world to better protect it.

"Not today, Sage. Maybe when you're a teensy bit older," he says, scooping her up in his arms and spinning her, because why not?

"But Papa, I already beat _you_ up," she argues, giggling nonetheless as he swings her up onto his shoulders. "And you're, like, the strongest person I know after Mama!"

"Yeah, well, that's different," he grumbles. Listen, toddlers with Maka's genes _and_ temper can really do a number on a guy when his back is turned and the floor is slippery.

"Then what is Mama doing?" Sage puts her hands on each of Soul's cheeks so he puffs them out, relishing her tinkling peals of laughter when she smooshes them in and the air whooshes out.

"She's doing a demonstration for her students," he says, grabbing their bagged lunches from the counter and making sure he has his wallet for the bus.

"Demon-stration?" Sage squints at the unfamiliar feeling of the word.

"It means showing other people how to do something," Soul answers, grabbing her sunhat before he forgets. His littlest angel won't be getting sunburned on his watch.

"Ooooooh," she says, nodding. Then, when she sees her sunhat, she whines, "Noooo, Papa, can we take the bike, pleeeeeeease? Pretty please, with your favorite sushi on top?"

Secretly extremely pleased that his daughter loves the motorcycle as much as he does, he has to at least _try_ to dissuade her so when he inevitably resonates with Maka later, he can be honest with his explanation as to why they took the bike. "Now now pup, you know your mother doesn't like it when you're on the bike. It can be dangerous."

"But Papa, you drive slower than Baba Yaga walks. That can't be dangerous, right?"

Grinning, he swipes his motorcycle keys from the hook by the door and says, "Good point, Sage. I'll even take the extra safe backroads."

He walks down the basement stairs to happy cheers, gently reaching up and placing her on the ground when he reaches the motorcycle. "Now, what are the rules?" he asks while he rummages around under the seat for their helmets.

Standing up straighter, Sage recites, "1) No moving around a lot. It can put the bike off-balance and that's dangerous. 2) Hold on tight to the bike and Papa's carrier straps. 3) No yelling at people at red lights." She pauses, and Soul smirks at her. "What about #4, pup?"

With a matching smirk, she yells, "HAVE FUN!"

 _That's my girl_ , he thinks proudly, attaching a sturdy harness to his chest so he can buckle Sage into him for extra security. He wheels his motorcycle out into the driveway, hoists her into the space on the seat in front of him to buckle her in, fastens their helmets (hers has a little gray shark fin on top, compliments of Wes), and they're off.

Sage's little snow-white pigtails flap behind her head, her gleeful shouts lost to the wind as the daddy-daughter duo weave their way through the back roads of Death City. Shibusen looms in front of them, giant, jutting candlesticks and tall spires bringing back memories of his journey together with Maka and the rest of Spartoi two decades ago. Now that Asura has been defeated and peace with the witches attained, classes look a lot different than they did in Soul's day. With Kid in charge, the emphasis is less on turning kids into weapon duos and more on getting them to a stage they can safely control their powers. Once they turn 18, they can come back if they wish to develop their powers further as part of an elite world peacekeeping force.

Maka, being the ambitious and wickedly smart woman she is, immediately settled into a prestigious research position after things settled down following the battle on the moon. Not only has she gone on to build an entire research department from the ground up (focusing on the Black Blood and potential cures), but she also teaches introductory soul perception and advanced sparring in the scant free time she has. This busy schedule is what prompted Soul to offer to stay at home when Sage was born, since his position as a Death Scythe is mostly symbolic now that there aren't many kishin left to hunt. He was, of course, nervous that he wouldn't be a good enough father, wouldn't know how to not raise a fucked up child, but it turns out he was just the guy for the job. He's got the shark bite teething marks to prove it.

They pull into the parking lot and stow their helmets, Sage insistent on walking next to Soul 'like a big girl' even though he can see the desire to ride his shoulders again dancing in her eyes. He humors her, though, stooping low to hold her hand as they walk into the building together. She might have his hair and teeth, but boy, does she have Maka's height.

The demonstration is set to take place in one of Shibusen's many amphitheaters, and they arrive just as everyone is settling down, whispers about, "She's the one who wielded the Last Death Scythe!" and, "Man, I wish she'd throw me around!" swirling around them as they take their seats. Front row, as always.

"Papa, why do people want Mama to beat them up?" Sage whispers next to him, tugging on his sleeve with curious eyes.

"Buhhh, well, you see, pup," he stutters, face flushing as memories of his and Maka's last, ah, _intimate_ time comes rushing back. "Mama's just a really skilled fighter, and they'd be honored if she beat them," he finishes, still sweating from his thoughts about the way her thighs immobilized his face like a vice.

"Oh, okay," Sage hums, kicking her tiny feet off the edge of her seat. "Look Papa! There's Mama!"

Soul turns his head to see his wife stride on stage and settle into position with a tight smile and a quick wave. He laughs to himself; she's all business today, and he pities the fool who has to face her with that inferno in her eyes. Glancing at the other side of the stage, he realizes why Maka is so focused. Ayr, her co-teacher for one class of advanced sparring, is going to be her partner. He was the one who whined about having to teach a fighting class "with a girl," as if somehow her gender erased the long list of achievements, and ass-kickery, she had accomplished. _Oh well_ , Soul thinks gleefully. _Time to watch a scrub be fed his own spine._

One of the students, presumably class rep by the air of self-importance in her tone, announces the start of the fight. The stage is a blur of swinging limbs and small grunts as hits land, but it's a matter of minutes until Maka steps a leg behind his and shoves forward, neatly sweeping him to land with her forearm on his throat. "You noticed how Professor Ayr wasn't watching his feet," she says to the class. "Always be on the lookout for openings like that where you can easily control the flow of the fight. Remember, as long as you're the one directing the movements, you can be a few steps ahead of your opponent." Feral grin on her face, she turns back to Ayr and asks, "Again?" The man practically snarls his assent, and round two begins.

Soul barely has enough time to smother the smug look on his face before the round is over, a sharp elbow to the solar plexus plus back fist combo laying Ayr out flat. Her commentary continues for a moment before she offers round three to him, danger lurking behind jade eyes, and he accepts without registering it. _Looks like I'll be cleaning blood out of her laundry again,_ Soul thinks idly, squeezing Sage's hand when she looks up at him excitedly. "Amazing, isn't it?" he whispers to her. "Your Mama's so... _cool."_

The pattern continues for another brutal twenty minutes before Ayr gives up, unable to properly stand without the help of a student who Excalibur-cringes to his side. "Looks like that'll be all, class!" she chirps, shrugging the wrinkles out of her clothing. "Use your extra time today to practice wrist control with a partner." She waits until the amphitheatre is almost empty before walking over to Soul and Sage, satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. "Hi loves."

"Hi Mama! You beat him up good!" Sage all but yells, hopping into Maka's arms to kiss her cheeks and get a forehead smooch in return.

"Yes, I guess I did, huh?" Maka says casually, bending down to put Sage on the ground and kiss Soul softly on the lips. "How was your day?"

Remembering that he forgot to hide the Nerf guns, he gulps, "Uh, good! Very good. We played together, she had her nap, and here we are."

Eyeing him suspiciously with that 'we'll talk later' look, she holds Sage's hand and starts to leave the room. "All right, let's go have our lunch then."

"Picnic!" Sage chirps happily from next to Maka, and Soul lets himself bask in the hazy warmth that spreads across his body like a sunrise. This is happiness, he decides, at least one version of it. Despite the trials they faced in the past and the difficulties they'll undoubtedly run into in the future, he knows now how important it is to live in the moment and let fear flow through and away from him. As Maka grabs his hand, sharing his contentment through their bond, he looks forward to witnessing the many ways they'll grow together.


	11. Bookstore

A/N: Whee, time to exit the post-Resbang slump. Here's a small tumblr prompt while I procrastinate real life responsibilities.

* * *

It started out as a dare.

More like a challenge, really, one to see who could ask out their respective crushes first, and Maka _refused_ to lose to her muscle-headed nincompoop of a neighbor who still insisted on being called by his childhood alter ego's name.

Black Star. More like Black _Death_ the way his nonsense seemed to kill all logic and reason with the speed and ferocity of deadly bacteria.

Gritting her teeth, Maka peered around the edge of the bookshelf she had strategically chosen for surveillance purposes - it was far enough away from the checkout that the grumpy object of this godforsaken mission would have a hard time seeing her, but close enough that she could gauge both how busy the store was and how tired he seemed. If she played her cards right, she could walk up when there were few people around, dazzle him with some tried and true wordplay that she had spent all of the previous night researching, and then be done before he woke up enough to realize he'd agreed to go on a date with someone as pathetically endowed as her.

She lurked in the sci-fi/fantasy section for another thirty minutes while the lunch rush came through, nearly forgetting about her mission entirely when she overheard a couple of teens talking about Anne McCaffrey's _Dragonriders of Pern_ series and getting into an animated discussion about the pros and cons of being soul-bonded to another sentient being. But then they left, and the relative quiet reminded Maka she had a job to do.

A final peek around the shelf confirmed that there was nobody else in the store but her and Sir Slouches-A-Lot. Remembering the Internet's reminder that men like confident, assertive women, she put on her competitive jiujitsu face and strode up to the counter with her back straight and her head held high. Her script was memorized. Her research was iron-clad. There was no way this could end in failure.

"Do you have a name or can I just call you mine?" she asked him in the most neutral tone she could manage. No need to pull out the sultry yet - all of the articles she'd read had agreed that pacing was important.

"Excuse me?" he stuttered, eyes wide as he half-tripped, half-collapsed onto the counter.

Maka frowned. It seemed the initial line didn't work so well - perhaps something more poetic would get the point across. "Do you have a map? I'm getting lost in your eyes." That should definitely provoke the needed response - his eyes were a brilliant shade of wine-red that did funny things to her stomach when she thought about it too much, but she supposed that was why Black Star teased her about him so often. That'll stop when she wins this bet, though. Surely Star couldn't be faring any better with Kid given his utter inability to form coherent sentences that didn't involve some inane portmanteau of 'bro' and the meme of the week.

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand?" he wheezed, red splotches making his cheeks glow in an awkward, adorable way. "Do you uh, need some help finding something in the store?"

Maka took a calming breath. _Of course_ she'd fall for the one who couldn't take a hint. Third time's the charm, they say, so she summoned her most seductive smile (the amount of time she spent practicing it in the mirror the night before was borderline embarrassing) and said, "Are you my appendix? I have a pain in my side that makes me feel like I should _take you out."_ If he missed the subtext of that last bit, she might have to resort to some of the more drastic measures mentioned in the article, like showing up at his window with a boombox and 80s music or giving him a bouquet of roses, and flowers were _expensive._

"Are you hitting on me?" he said, voice cracking in the middle and rising an octave or so while he looked at her with a strange mixture of incredulity and something a little like hope.

"It appears that way, Soul," an amused voice said to their right, and _oh god, someone else was there the whole time._ She had waist length blond hair, fine cheekbones, and some of the sharpest eyeliner Maka had ever seen. With a growing sense of horror, Maka realized this must be his mother.

Soul jumped and turned to face her, groaning when he saw the satisfied smirk and delicately placed hands on hips. "Why are you here? Weren't you doing inventory?"

"Now now, is that any way to treat family?" she chided, still smiling while moving past Soul to collect a stack of receipts by the register.

"I try to forget I'm related to you," he grumbled, scrubbing at his face in a vain attempt to rid himself of the color in his cheeks. "Don't you have better things to do than creep around up front?"

She laughed and ruffled his hair with an easy kind of affection that made something in Maka's heart twinge. What it must be like, to have a mother like that.

"I'll leave you two kids alone. I can't be late to my modeling gig, anyway. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" She winked and, after making her way around the counter towards the door, turned and stage-whispered to Maka, "And that only involves anything without clearly negotiated safe words and boundaries, so have at it!" Another wink and she was gone, the small bell above the door chiming her exit.

"Your mom seems nice," Maka said cautiously, not wanting to say much more because Soul already seemed like he was one wrong look away from disintegrating on the spot and she was busy trying to figure out how to steer this conversation back to dates.

 _"Mom?"_ he said, aghast. "That wasn't my mother, that was my _brother."_

Now it was Maka's turn to blush. "Oh! I'm sorry, I guess I presumed with the hair and — do you think he can teach me how to do eyeliner like that? I always mess it up."

Soul's laugh was more like a whimper while he lowered his face into his arms, sinking into the small stool behind the counter like he wished he could simply fade away. "Probably. He's always picked to do high fashion stuff like this."

Maka allowed him one minute of embarrassed sulking before clearing her throat and asking, "So, is that a yes?"

He raised his head, confusion breaking through the pained set of his features. "Huh?"

"Will you go out with me?" she said impatiently, glancing at the clock. Kid had gotten out of orchestra almost an hour ago and she didn't want to risk Star somehow being smooth enough to fingergun his way into a relationship before she could apply her hours of thoroughly researched technique.

"I mean, that sounds—" He's cut off by the door slamming wide to none other than Black Star and Kid, the latter wearing an impeccable neutral face despite Star's large bicep curling into the back of his neck from the arm around his shoulder.

"'Sup nerds," Star said, sauntering over to join them by the counter. "This hot piece of sass agreed to go out with me just a few minutes ago, and given the awkward tension I felt from down the street, you two haven't even gotten to the confession yet. So I'm gonna say _booyah_ and you lose, Maks." He raised his other hand over his head, fist formed, and didn't break eye contact with Maka as Kid sighed and lifted his fist to bump Star's.

Maka seethed. She'd been so close! All of her planning, her _research_ , was for nothing after all.

"Actually, she was just waiting for me to finish my shift," Soul said, glancing between Black Star and Maka. "She asked me out hours ago, and we're also heading out on our first date soon."

She tried not to look so surprised when he made eye contact with her then, that warm feeling coming back in waves and allowing her to return his smile with a genuine one of her own. "Yeah, right. We're thinking about a movie."

Star gaped at the two of them. "Are you kidding me? Punch Ya Albarn got a date before _moi?_ Jeez man, we gotta be friends if this one's nerdery didn't scare you away. We were going to the movies, too, so how about a double date?"

"Sounds good to us," Maka said.

"Great, we'll meet you out front." Black Star and Kid walked back outside, and the longer Maka looked at them, the more she saw the bashful tilt to Star's smile and the small fidgets he made when Kid leaned into his arm. It looked like Star wouldn't be the only one with teasing ammo.

"Thanks, by the way. For covering me," Maka said to Soul when the others were out of earshot. "We'd had a bet about who could ask their crushes out on a date first and—"

"I'm your crush?" Soul looked dazed again, but this time with such an honest, open smile that Maka couldn't help but indulge the melting emotion lapping at her heart.

"Yeah, you are," she said, tamping down her own starstruck expression and remembering the need to project confidence. "I spent a lot of time looking up how to flirt. I'm glad it wasn't all for nothing."

"Well, that's cool because you've been my crush for a while." That wide-open smile seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face, and he held out his hand to her as he walked towards the door. "But just so you know, you shouldn't take dating advice from cheesy pick-up line sites."

Maka's eyes widened. "How did you know where I sourced my information?"

Laughing, Soul enveloped her hand in his and opened the door. "Call it a hunch."


	12. To The Bone

She's done everything right, you know. The proof is all around her, puncturing the cadence of her voice when she spits case law like spoken word, stalking her name in effusive headlines and a pristine Wikipedia biography, bleeding out across her Manhattan apartment with its gleaming marble countertops and untouched stainless steel appliances. Modern, the realtor had called it, fit for any young up-and-coming professional like herself who wanted to change the world.

(Can you really change the world? Or does it end up changing you?)

Maka takes a sip of gin number two and loads her social media pages with the kind of loving care Liz applies to assembling her favorite rifle. Ah, looks like Blake and Tsu's daughter is doing well, smiling wide for the camera with dirt stains on her overalls. Mom and dad beam at her in the background, this product of their steadfast, loving relationship. Better leave a nice comment so they don't know Auntie Maka is a hateful little human who only sees pictures like these as another reminder of what she'll never have.

Don't get her wrong, she's happy for them. Happy for all of her friends. But that doesn't silence the little voice in her head whispering _where is your hand to hold, your lips to kiss?_ Yes, she knows it's petty and unproductive to get sad at others' happiness; _yes,_ she knows she should be out trying to 'do something about it' – she knows more than the sniveling idiots who try to counsel her think she does. _Knowing_ has never been the problem – she's Maka fucking Albarn, top of her class at Columbia Law School, most sought-after public defender on the East Coast – but knowledge alone does not translate into action, nor ward away the crippling loneliness that saps her will to do anything at all.

The lump in her throat means it's time for another drink and another page. Kid and Liz are celebrating their fifth anniversary in the French Alps, _sip,_ looks like Jackie and Kim had a radiant wedding complete with a ring-bearing crow, _sip,_ Killik and Harvar bought a house together in California and can't wait to begin the adoption process, _sip,_ Stein and Marie are treating each other to foot massages and lazy brunches while their daughter is in summer camp, _sip, sip, sip._

So many blissful couples. So much _love_ on her news feed.

It makes her sick.

Oh, she knows the drill, knows the chorus of, 'It'll happen eventually!' 'You just have to be patient!' 'Work on yourself first!' 'Don't compare your path to someone else's!' that everyone spews like a well-intentioned plague, because what do you _think_ she tells herself at night, curled up with a pillow to her chest on her too-large bed?

 _Ah, but you have such a great life,_ Maka reminds herself. Running through the checklist is compulsive at this point: good food on the table, a warm bed at night, more than enough money to sustain her, life in a conflict-free zone, a loving father, kind friends. Stupid girl, not content with these things that other people would kill to have.

The only relief comes from nights like these when she allows herself to crumble. It's a compromise she's made to stay sane during the workweek – no tears before 8 PM, no social media except one weekend a month. It's impossible _not_ to compare herself to others; this is how she was raised, daughter of the best attorney in the United States. To win, she had to be better than her peers. To be better than her peers, she had to measure her test results against theirs, her GPA to the next highest contender, her physical appearance to the accepted norm, and when she came out on top it was then _and only then_ that she could deem herself worthy.

The search bar beckons. Just one more person to check in on, now. Her glass has been empty for the last ten minutes but she brings it to her lips anyway, chases away thoughts of feeling warm lips instead of cold glass, and types his name.

Soul's wife is beautiful. Or rather, her outline looks beautiful through gin-fogged eyes and a screen that has seen better days. He looks happy, though, the kind of happy you grow into after accepting the best of bad options. His father was always pushy about having an heir to his business, and when Wes got engaged to another man, it fell to Soul to 'continue the family line.' Mr. Evans threatened to disown his eldest son unless Soul found a spouse, a _female_ spouse, and Soul couldn't bear to let the brother who had protected him all those years be left with nothing.

First one, then two, then a steady stream of tears trickles down her nose. It's all she can do to hug her knees to her chest before the screen blurs to shimmering patches of white and the first sob steals her breath.

 _You didn't know._

 _You didn't know._

 _You didn't know._

She couldn't have known at 21, fresh out of undergrad with a dream to fight for the underserved, how little time she had. She couldn't have known how one answer, spoken in stumbling tongues while mama's goodbye and papa's late night tears buzzed in the back of her mind, would unmake so many doors she now desperately wishes to open.

Marriage right out of college was the definition of moving too fast for Maka, whose closest romantic encounter had been when Soul fell asleep on her after game night. But maybe then she'd be wearing matched flower crowns and goofy grins on Snapchat, too, or settling in to watch a movie next to someone who writes good morning notes on staff paper and calls her out when she's being stubborn.

 _You didn't know._

There is a longing in her bones, deep and aching and endless. It overwhelms the fading voice that whispers _patience, patience my child,_ because she no longer knows the difference between patience and fear. Is she waiting for the next 'right' person to come along, or is she too scared to even look?

The room begins to spin, so Maka rests her head on the still-whirring laptop and closes her eyes. It doesn't matter whether she is brave or patient or worth it because at the end of the day, she is still alone.

And she has already missed her chance.


End file.
